


Obvious and Oblivious

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Joke Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 08:02:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14540325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: 5 times John said "No shit, Sherlock," and one time it meant Sherlock had missed the obvious.





	Obvious and Oblivious

1\. 

“Stop being unreasonable,” Sherlock snapped petulantly, arms crossed, nose wrinkled.

“I’m _not_ being unreasonable,” John repeated for probably the third time already, “If we’re going to execute this plan, it’s not going to involve handling —“ He waved a hand at the massive heaps of steaming fertilizer. “— _this_.”

The whole matter could be brought down to impatience, John thought. The case was fairly simple — a murderer had been leaving their victims, previously stored in some freezer, in the same farmhouse every two days. Sherlock wanted to leave something for him to step in so that he would leave some trace of where he went or so that he could look at each culprit’s shoes the next day. Sherlock, as he had said several times already, wouldn’t be doing the case if Mycroft hadn’t blackmailed him into it. Sherlock wanted the case to be over with. He could walk out of the farmhouse, buy a bag of something that _wasn’t_ manure, and take more time to do the case.

Or, as he insisted in his impatience, he could use the steaming heap of fertilizer that was directly outside the farmhouse and get back to shooting the wall for the hour he would have spent otherwise.

John pinched his nose as Sherlock kept his chin firmly in the air. “Have you considered that the murderer is _much more likely_ to wash your plan off their shoes if it’s cow poo?” he asked irritably. He’d left work for this, to stand here and argue with Sherlock that he wasn’t going to go rummaging around in a pile of dung. “People don’t typically enjoy stepping in it, you know.”

“Then I would be able to tell who it was by their newly washed shoes,” Sherlock insisted, a pout on his face now. He really _was_ a child. “Really, I see no reason to extend our trip here more than —“  
“It’s going to be the same length whether or not you spend the day staring at the wall instead of buying something else for them to step in,” John snapped irritably, “The killer isn’t going to alter their schedule to drop a body in the farmhouse five hours earlier just because you decided to be lazy.”  
Sherlock frowned, and tightened his crossed arms. “Why should we do so much extra work because you’re squeamish?” he asked.

“And you’re not?” John protested, “With that wrinkled nose of yours?” He rolled his eyes. “If we see the killer, and they smell us after we’ve _rummaged around_ in that stuff…“

“We’ll retire to our hotel room as soon as this is finished,” Sherlock insisted, although he looked more hesitant now at this argument, “We’ll clean up and review the culprits’ shoes the next day, no smell involved.”

John stared at him incredulously, but Sherlock seemed to be breaking. After a moment of thought, he planted his metaphorical feet and decided to make it clear that he wasn’t budging.

“No,” he said firmly, “We’ll get something else. We’re not using that.”

Sherlock appeared to be finally admitting defeat, but still managed an exasperated sigh. “But _John —“_

“ _No shit,_ Sherlock,” John declared firmly, and that was that.

* * *

 

2.

“Remember,” John said, feeling very much at the moment that he had the patience of a saint, “These people are practically royalty. Be careful what you say.”  
Sherlock, bearing the expression that John had learned was to be worn before Sherlock messed with people’s patience to get answers out of them, frowned in John’s direction. “I’m _always_ careful what I say,” he protested.

John’s mind flashed back to a month earlier, a scene involving man being handcuffed by Lestrade, and Sherlock’s loud remark of _“You should feel lucky we didn’t use the manure!”_ causing incessant teasing by the police for the next two weeks. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. 

“Are you _really?”_

Sherlock spluttered, then managed to gather himself. “Everything I do is always thought over millions of times before it’s done!” he protested. John’s mind once again flashed back, this time to the time Sherlock almost brought a lawsuit down on himself by throwing something through a window to see if it would, indeed, kill from that height, and found out no, it wouldn’t, when it broke the gardener’s back.

John snorted. “If that’s true, you must not be a genius after all,” he grumbled. Sherlock puffed up like an indignant bird, but John spoke again before he could screech out his offense. “Just be _polite_ , Sherlock.” He gave an involuntary laugh as he continued. “Act like a normal human being. Toe the line.”

“What line?” Sherlock asked snappishly, and John _honestly_ couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about,” he responded, knowing at least his first couple sentences were noted, “Just — no _shit_ , Sherlock, alright?”

“I never say _shit_ in the first place,” Sherlock responded irritably, then, two seconds later the doors were opened and Sherlock exclaimed, “Ah, the happy widow! Looking _so_ stunning, I’d say you’re already looking for a new husband!”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and tried his best to disappear into the floor.

* * *

 

3.

“I know what we’re going to do to solve this,” Sherlock burst, immediately raising John’s hackles.

“You… know what we’re going to do?” he asked cautiously, and irritation burst in Sherlock’s eyes at his tone.

“I _do,_ ” he insisted, even through that look on his face that meant he was about to do something incredibly stupid, “We’ll place a board —“ He gestured at the spot with the footprints. “— right _here_ , and when they walk through they will _step on it_ —“ The gleam in his eyes at least warned John that it was going to be something ridiculous. “— and the nails in the board will maim their foot, leaving an _unmistakeable mark —“_

“No!” John interrupted, feeling irritated at being more alarmed after he’d been warned by that _look,_ “We are _not_ maiming somebody!”  
Sherlock got a glint in his eye. “They’ve removed any cameras with an EMP every time —“  
“And if someone else walks through this particular alley and steps on your idea?” John demanded, “Without the EMP?”

“Nobody walks through here save for a few —“ Sherlock started, but John waved an angry hand.

“No, _shit,_ Sherlock! That’s a terrible idea!” He sighed and tried to stop waving his hands around. “If we can just get some of the same stuff we used for the manure guy —“  
“It isn’t easy to find!” Sherlock insisted, then waved at a pile of scraps, “We could make the board right here, using —“  
“We could give an innocent person tetanus and bring _another_ lawsuit down on your head!” John snapped, and at the mention of _another lawsuit_ Sherlock fell silent and seemed to begin sulking. John sighed, yet again wondering exactly _why_ he hung around with this idiot, then shook his head. “We’ll use the other stuff, alright? And then you won’t have Mycroft covering your ass again.”  
Sherlock nodded glumly, looking very much like a child who had just been told that, _no,_ they could not have the toy they wanted.

* * *

 

4.

“I have been thinking that you could start using an abbreviation in your blog,” Sherlock remarked, immediately causing John to stop typing. He looked over at Sherlock, who had been behaving rather nice that day, for him. He, for once, wasn’t keen to be irate with him for speaking about his blog.

“An abbreviation?” He took a drink from his tea.  
“Instead of listing all our names,” Sherlock told him, a glint in his eyes, “you could refer to Lestrade, you, me, and —“ He made a face. “— if you _must,_ Andersen and Donovan, with the term Sherlock Holmes and his Investigative Team.”  
John immediately choked on his tea as he started to laugh and coughed for a good minute. Sherlock looked insulted. “What? You would abrreviate it SHahIT!”  
“ _No you wouldn’t_ ,” John wheezed through his continued laughter, placing down his tea and laughing at the term. _An abbreviation!_

“What do you mean?” Sherlock snorted. “Obviously that’s how you would abbreviate it!” He crossed his arms. “SHahIT! It’s easier than listing all our names!”

“SHahIT?” John repeated through incessant giggles.

“You would abbreviate it SHahIT!” Sherlock insisted.

John spent a good minute laughing, much to Sherlock’s distaste, and _finally_ managed to be able to talk.

“No, SHIT, Sherlock,” he gasped, “That’s how people would abbreviate it!”  
Sherlock’s face turned pink.

* * *

 

5.

“It’s clearly mud frob the swamb,” Sherlock said through a sinus infection that he had _insisted_ was nothing, waving a hand at the runny _mess_ on the building floor, “The culbrid musd’ve been from dat area, smearin’ around that stubb.”

“That is _not_ mud,” Lestrade said with his nose pinched, and when Sherlock sent him that offended look he waved his hands in the air helplessly, “Sherlock, when you’re not congested you’re a _genius_ , but that’s _not_ mud.”

“Muddy runs,” John commented with a pinched expression.

“Ob courseh it’s bud!” Sherlock said, and John couldn’t help but snicker at the way he was talking. _Never infect_ Sherlock Holmes _with a case of a runny nose, or he won’t be able to tell when a criminal has anything else runny!_

“No,” John said patiently, “ _shit,_ Sherlock. Mud doesn’t smell like that.”

“I hope it’s not human, or I’m going to have to use sandpaper in the shower,” Anderson grumbled from where he held the newly collected bag of shit. Sherlock, bright red, seemed to take this advantage.

“ _Do_ use san-baper in the shower, Andersob,” he snapped, looking quite flustered, “do ush _all_ a favor.”

John snickered, and at Anderson’s indignant look plugged his nose and quipped, “Stob comblaining, Andersob!”

Anderson let out a loud laugh and Sherlock, sending John a glare, quickly started rattling off deductions again in an attempt to shut them up. The laughter continued.

* * *

 

+1.

_Unbelievable…_

“Lestrade said something,” Sherlock remarked casually from where he’d been positioned on the couch for the past three hours. John, at first, assumed that, as usual, his brain-to-mouth filter was overworked by the storm of thoughts in his head. After a long pause, Sherlock shifted on the couch to glare at him. John blinked at the miracle and continued tapping away on his keyboard.

_Cool. No, that’s too mild. Very cool. …Very? Pah…_

“Lestrade knows how to talk, does he?” he responded blandly. Although he didn’t like to admit it, sometimes when he was writing he got in the same state of mind Sherlock got while hogging the entire couch. Things were happening around him, but right now he was trying to think of a synonym for _amazing_ that he hadn’t used yet, and everything else was briefly considered on by his underworked brain-to-mouth filter.

“He said something _unusual,_ ” Sherlock tried again.

_Fantastic. No. Used that three times…_

“Was it the time that he said he sometimes wished he was a vulture so he could eat while he worked?”

_Stupendous. Mind-boggling. No, I’ve moved past the mind-boggling point. That was the first three months…_

“No.” Sherlock frowned in the corner of his eye. He appeared to be unimpressed with John ignoring him. John realized he was ignoring him with a start. His synapses fired in surprise.

_“Remarkable!”_ John whispered ferociously, realizing the right word. His battle was won. His fingers performed dance of victory on the keyboard. There was a brief silence.

“In your opinion, Lestrade is so mundane that him saying something unusual —“  
John’s mind quickly caught up with the world outside of it and he snorted, leaving a trail of gibberish on his blog. He then gave typing up as a lost cause while Sherlock was determined to talk and turned around, raising an eyebrow.

“Okay. What did Lestrade say?”

Sherlock seemed pleased to finally have his attention. John was flattered. He took a breath.

“He said that you were more like my housekeeper than Mrs. Hudson.”

John’s opinion of Lestrade soured slightly under the pressure. His flattery disintegrated.

“Huh,” John muttered, deciding that maybe he could think up a _new_ word for Lestrade, “ _Really_ nice of him.”  
Sherlock huffed in irritation. “That wasn’t the unusual part.”  
“Oh?” John beat on the backspace button. “I’m so _flattered_ to hear your opinion about me, Sherlock. Really!”

“Oh, don’t be sarcastic,” Sherlock snapped, finally losing his patience and rushing on before John could immerse himself on a particularly snappish blog entry, “He then continued on to say that it was _remarkable_ how you doted on me without any reassurance of a wedding ring.”

John removed his fingers from the keyboard. The words _giant asshole_ seemed to gaze up at him in a slightly accusatory manner. He narrowed his eyes at them and turned away.

“And?” John asked, keeping his tone monotone. He was sure Sherlock heard a million eccentricities in it anyway.

“And… you aren’t denying it,” Sherlock responded blandly. _There it is._

“So?” John crossed his arms and tried not to feel nervous. “I _feel_ like your wife half the time, the way I have to coddle you, so why should I?”

“You have feelings for me,” Sherlock observed, staring him right in the eyes, paler than his damned sheet. John’s spine stiffened. He whirled around and continued typing, rambling something eloquent about potatoes for all he knew.

“No, shit, Sherlock,” his mouth said before he knew he’d said it. His fingers stopped. He whirled his head around to look at Sherlock, and he looked gobsmacked. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. After a moment, he shot to his feet like a rocket. John’s laptop skidded across the table with a screeching noise as he rushed John like he was about to attack him. Sherlock then threw himself painfully on John’s knees, and wrapped his arms around him, yanking his head forward —

_Oh._

Not for the first time, John felt like a complete idiot. His and Sherlock’s lips moved against one another. Eons later, Sherlock pulled away, and John felt somewhat dizzy. 

_Then again, when does Sherlock not make me feel dizzy?_

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock breathed against his lips.

“You’re a bigger one,” John couldn’t help but say, lips quirking. They each pulled back enough to look each-other in the eyes. A moment passed.

“I am,” Sherlock agreed. John stopped, staring him blankly in the face until he remembered what he’d said. A smirk began playing around Sherlock’s lips. John’s brow furrowed.

“… What are you doing?”

“Admitting my stupidity.” Sherlock got a shit-eating grin. John twitched his head, arching his eyebrows.

“ _That’s_ what it looks like when you admit your an idiot, is it?” John responded, but before he knew it Sherlock pulled back.

“It has to have been a minivan,” Sherlock exclaimed, getting to his feet, “With burugundy paint! That was the getaway car!” He rushed for the door. John got to his feet and felt abused. He put a hand to his lips as Sherlock darted around the room, grabbing his coat from the floor and yanking his wallet off the desk. He stood by the door and raised an eyebrow at John.

“Are you _coming,_ John?”  
John raised his eyebrows, then sighed and got to his feet. He grabbed his jacket from the table and decided that maybe solving a murder would make him feel less like a fool. He pulled his jacket on and stepped towards the door, ready to call a cab and sit there awkwardly. As soon as he passed by Sherlock, Sherlock grabbed onto his arm and yanked him into another kiss. John froze, startled. Sherlock grinned madly and rushed through the door.

“Let’s go, John!”

John followed, unable to stop a grin of his own.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my sort-of farewell to the Sherlock TV show, my first and last posted Sherlock fic. I’m done with the queer-baiting. I’ve had enough disappointment. I’m done feeling like an idiot for reasons that are not about me not understanding murder-mystery shows until the end.  
> That is, I’m still going to occasionally read the fics. I’ve still got a few that I want to read. But… screw Moffat. I’m done. No more. I’m going to live in blissful ignorance. To people who still watch the show: go, you! You’re a lot stronger than me. That said, there's no queer-baiting in this fic. It might seem indulgent. If you thought that, you'd be right.  
> Anyway, I hope you liked the fic. Basically me trying to write a joke. If you liked it, then I’m really glad I made somebody happy with this nonsense.


End file.
